


Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Missing Professor

by DoubleNegative



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, First Kiss, Gift Fic, Hogwarts has many secrets, Hufflepuff John, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Potterlock, Slytherin Sherlock, Story: The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual, and Sherlock is determined to uncover them all, with eventual (mild) slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock meet as students at Hogwarts and attempt to solve the mystery of a missing professor and a baffling riddle. Loosely based on "The Musgrave Ritual."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MinistryHasFallen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinistryHasFallen/gifts).



> For ministryhasfallen, based on their prompt for the johnlockchallenges Valentine's gift exchange: "John and Sherlock meet at university under very unusual circumstances." This is a liberal interpretation of that prompt, but I hope it satisfies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet.

John waited for a moment, listening intently for any sound, before slipping around the corner and down the narrow corridor. Thank Merlin for the Hufflepuff common room’s incredibly easy access to the kitchens. Oh, sure the Gryffindors _thought_ the Weasley brothers were hot stuff for having figured out how to get into the kitchens at night; what they didn’t know was that the Hufflepuffs had been doing it for years--they just did it more quietly. The barrels that concealed the tunnel entrance to Hufflepuff basement were in sight now; John and his load of pumpkin juice, pasties, and biscuits were nearly home free.

John was just shifting his armful of goodies to free his wand and tap out the pass code on the correct barrel when he caught sight of a dark-and-pale blur rushing headlong around the corner towards him.

And then several things happened at once:

“Move!” the blur shouted, not slowing in the least. There was, of course, nowhere to go in the narrow corridor, and in his scramble to get out of the way, John dropped the pumpkin juice, knocked the wrong barrel with his wand as he tried to catch it, and managed to trigger the Hufflepuff common room’s defense against intruders. As one, the barrels guarding the entrance opened up a deluge of vinegar on both John and the blur, who had picked that very moment to slip on a dropped pasty and slam shoulder-first into John’s midsection, knocking them both to the ground under a tsunami of vinegar.

John had never in his life hated Hufflepuff House, but this seemed like a very good moment to consider starting.

The blur turned out to be a fellow student--a Slytherin, by his robes, but not one John had met before. He was taller than John, but skinnier, without the broad shoulders that came from several years of swinging a Beater's bat. Didn't make him feel any less substantial sprawled over John's stomach, though. For a brief moment they simply stared at each other, and if John felt just a little short of breath under the gaze of the boy’s narrowed sea-gray eyes, that was surely due to having been laid out flat in a stone corridor not seconds before.

The boy scrambled up, slipping briefly on the wet floor and landing another elbow in John’s soft bits by accident--in motion, he seemed to be made entirely of elbows and angles--just in time for Filch to round the corner, cloak swirling and Mrs. Norris at his heels. The boy swore under his breath, and slouched against the wall with his arms crossed over his narrow chest, looking far more nonchalant than anyone dripping in vinegar and facing down Filch had a right to.

“HOLMES!” Filch shouted. “This is the fourth time you’ve been in the corridors after hours this month. Keep telling Dumbledore we wouldn’t have these problems if we still used the chains, ungrateful brats don’t learn any other-- And _you_ , Watson!” Filch added suddenly, having evidently just spotted John slowly climbing to his feet in a puddle of vinegar, pumpkin juice, and sodden pasties. “Stealing food from the kitchens? That’ll be detentions for you both, and points from your houses, I’ll make sure of it.” He sniffed the air with a grimace of disgust. “Back to your dormitory, Watson, and don’t think you can try to sneak out again. You, Holmes, with me.” He turned to head back down the hallway, grabbing Holmes by the sleeve of his robes and tugging him along, before withdrawing his hand with a sniff and wiping it on his own robes.

John turned back to the entrance to the Hufflepuff basement, which had evidently rearranged itself while he’d been distracted. He could hear Filch’s stream of muttered imprecations trailing behind him, punctuated by an occasional acerbic snort from Holmes, as he tapped in the password (correctly this time) and ducked through the tunnel that opened up to meet him.

John bore the round of good-natured ribbing that greeted his arrival in the common room with the best grace he could manage--dripping, sour-smelling, and utterly unburdened by the kitchen’s bounty as he was--but was nonetheless grateful that no one tried to block his escape to the dormitory. He stripped out of his soaking robes as quickly as he could, tossing them in a corner to deal with later, and slipped into his bed, pulling the curtains of the four-poster shut tight.

He let his eyes drift closed, trying to pretend he couldn’t still feel the weight of Holmes’s sharp gaze, the way he’d seemed to see right through John. He supposed he should be angry with him--after all, he would have gotten back to the common room scot-free if Holmes hadn’t come flying around the corner, Filch in hot pursuit, at that exact moment. Instead, he was intrigued by this Slytherin he’d never seen before, all long limbs and haughty unconcern for Filch’s rage and the indignity of his position.

John wondered how it was he’d never seen Holmes before. Obviously they were in different houses, and most likely different years, but he felt as though he should have noticed him, somehow, in the corridors or in the Great Hall. The Hogwarts population wasn’t so large, after all, and there was something striking about Holmes, something memorable. John’s last thought before drifting off to sleep was to wonder whether he and Holmes would have their detention together. He had a vague feeling that such a thing might actually make him look forward to the detention--and wasn’t that a novelty?

  
//

John scanned the Great Hall as surreptitiously as he could the next morning, but he didn’t see any sign of Holmes, at the Slytherin table or anywhere else. He mentally chided himself for even caring; he had more important things to worry about right now than the boy who had quite literally run into him last night and landed him in detention. Not when there was double Transfiguration with Ravenclaw in an hour and a Quidditch match against Gryffindor in three days.

According to the note that materialized against his goblet of pumpkin juice, John would be serving his detention after dinner that night, working in greenhouse two with Professor Sprout. Well, he’d had worse. The greenhouses, humid and heady with leaves and blooms, were hardly his favorite place, but Professor Sprout was among the more easygoing detention supervisors (especially where students in her own house were concerned) and with an important Quidditch match looming, she wasn’t likely to keep him out late.

He was surprised, however, to find Holmes already in the greenhouse when he arrived. He’d convinced himself, over the course of the day, that Holmes would probably be serving detention with his own head of house, and that furthermore, it was ridiculous that John would even _care_ whom he was serving detention with. It was never going to be _fun_ , after all.

Professor Sprout set them to thinning out a few dozen flats of seedlings, then settled herself by the door with a book, apparently content to let them work without strict supervision.

“So,” John asked, hesitantly, after a few minutes of awkward silence. “Why _were_ you out in the corridors last night?”

Holmes shrugged. “Sleeping is boring.”

John blinked. “Right. So you just… wander the corridors?”

“Hogwarts is my home. It benefits me to know it as well as possible.”

John snorted. There was no reason Holmes’s slightly affronted tone or posh diction should be appealing. “Let me guess: you’re the only person who’s actually read _Hogwarts: A History_?”

“Of course. It was fascinating.”

John shook his head and bent back to his work. He hadn’t ever met anyone who’d used that book as anything other than a massive doorstop. The library had five copies, prominently displayed near the door, and he’d never seen a single one checked out.

“So,” Holmes began, a few trays of seedlings later. “Is your father a Muggle, or your mother?”

“My mum,” John said. “How did you know?”

“Obvious,” Holmes said, carelessly sliding the next flat off the rack and plopping it down on their work table. “You’re fully immersed in the wizarding world: you take care of your wand, but you’re not precious about it; I can see the scuffs. Someone who was raised fully Muggle is always a bit cautious of their wand, but you grew up seeing them as a commonplace object. So, at least one magical parent. You captain the Hufflepuff Quidditch team and you’re a beater, on the team since your second year. You’ve certainly sustained some Quidditch injuries--your shoulder, for one--but the damage to your right knee is older than your time at Hogwarts, and wasn’t caused by a fall. More likely a bad tackle, so--football or rugby, likely rugby by your build and height. Wizards don’t play rugby, therefore: non-magical parent, hybrid upbringing. Elementary.”

John realized that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it with a snap. “That was _amazing_ ,” he said.

A slight flush crept across Holmes’s cheeks. “Really?”

“Really. Extraordinary. I just--wow.”

“That’s not what most people say,” Holmes said, definitely biting back a smile.

“What do most people say?”

“Piss off.”

John looked at him in disbelief for a moment, then they both dissolved into helpless laughter. A warm glow spread through John’s chest. He had friends; of course he did (he was a Quidditch captain, wasn’t he?), but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like this--and in detention, no less.

“Oi, gentlemen!” Professor Sprout called. “If you’re having that much fun, you’re not working hard enough. This _is_ detention, mind.”

“Sorry, Professor,” John called, still giggling. He turned back to Holmes, letting the strange feeling of contentment settle into his bones.

“So,” Holmes said, leaning a little closer and lowering his voice, which had turned serious. “I presume you noticed that Professor Brunton wasn’t at any of the meals today?”

“No…” John said slowly, thinking back. Had he even looked at the staff table? “Should I have?”

Holmes rolled his eyes. “You _should_ have, but I’m not surprised you didn’t. Everyone sees, but no one actually _observes_. He wasn’t at any of the meals today, and there was a substitute for all of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.”

“Maybe he’s sick?” John suggested.

Holmes shook his head. “I went by the Infirmary; he’s not there. He’s not on the grounds at all, as far as I can tell. He’s disappeared. Something’s going on; I plan to look into it.”

John frowned. “You mean foul play or something? That seems… far-fetched.”

“He’s disappeared, literally overnight, in the middle of the term. No announcement, no explanation, and this after several weeks of increasingly cagey, nervous, distracted behaviour. I’ve been observing him in class. Two days ago I overheard him talking to Professor Sinistra about the lunar calendar, and it _definitely_ wasn’t an academic discussion; he sounded quite desperate.”

“Still…” John said. “If there’s really something going on, shouldn’t you, I don’t know, go to the professors or something? The Ministry, even?”

Holmes snorted. “Please. They’re all idiots. Dumbledore is sharper than most, I’ll grant, but he’s still a bit blind where human nature is concerned. Everyone is _not_ as good as he thinks they are.” He looked at John sideways, and John once again had to fight the feeling of being pinned in place by those strange pearly eyes. “I could use some help.”

“With what? I don’t want another detention, and we’ve a big match coming up.”

“Oh, nothing terribly strenuous,” Holmes said. “But I work better with someone to talk to. I’ve got the skull, but he’s--”

“Wait, you have a _skull_?” John said. “Tell me it’s not human.”

“Friend of mine,” Holmes said, ignoring the tones of actual horror in John’s voice. “Well, I say ‘friend’...” He paused, looked John full in the face, with just a trace of amusement playing about his lips. “You want to, you know. It could be fun.” He lowered his voice further still. “I’ve got a few leads I want to pursue after we get out of here. Come on, John. What do you say?”

John licked his lips nervously. He should say no, that was patently obvious--after all, he was already in detention for being out of the dormitory after hours--but Holmes was becoming more fascinating by the moment, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done something truly ridiculous, for the sheer hell of it. His life, in the last few years, had become a swirl of exam prep and plans for the future. Even Quidditch, the best thrill he’d ever found, had been weighed down by the responsibilities that came with captaining the team.

“All right,” he whispered, trying to tamp down the excitement blooming in his stomach. “I’m in.”

Holmes smiled broadly, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and pulling an answering smile from John before he even realized what was happening.

“Just one thing,” John added. “You apparently know everything about me--including my first name, by the way, and I’m not sure how you guessed that one, even if it is the most common name in Britain--and I don’t know the first thing about you. Doesn’t seem fair.”

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he replied. “As for your name, I never guess. I can see where it’s written on the inside of your collar.”

John grinned wider. “Obvious?”

“Very.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the inimitable madrona629 and alutiv. I may not be able to keep from embarrassing myself, but I do my best to keep from embarrassing you. :)
> 
> Also, it may be worth noting that I did not make up nearly as much of the weird Hogwarts facts as you might suspect. The Harry Potter wiki, it turns out, is a treasure trove of Hogwartsian wtf-ery--which is exactly as it should be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break-in and a break-through

John still couldn’t believe he’d let Sherlock talk him into this. As soon as Professor Sprout had released them from detention, Sherlock had made a beeline for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, John in tow.

“We’ll start with Brunton’s office,” Sherlock whispered, slipping into the classroom and shutting the door behind them. “Then we can try his rooms if we need to.”

Sherlock crouched outside the office door, pulling a small vial of green liquid from his robes and shaking a few drops onto the lock, which swung open silently. “Lock-loosening solution,” Sherlock said, at John’s inquiring look. “I invented it last year.”

“You invented it?” John said, incredulous. He’d thought he was competent at potions, but inventing new ones--that was another level entirely.

“Well,” Sherlock said, looking pleased. “Technically, I heavily modified an existing potion.”

“Amazing,” John breathed.

Sherlock glanced at him sideways. “Do you realize you do that out loud?”

“Sorry,” John said, flushing. “I’ll shut up.”

“No, it’s...fine,” Sherlock said, pressing his lips together to hold back his smile. That bitten-back smirk just made John flush harder. He glanced around them, grateful for the dark. They wouldn’t be able to get much done without a little light, though. “ _Lumos_ ,” he said, holding his wand aloft and letting its soft light illuminate Brunton’s office. (His _office_. John still couldn’t quite believe he was breaking into a teacher’s office. It was utterly mad, several orders of magnitude beyond sneaking out at night to steal food from the kitchens, but--he couldn’t imagine turning back now. Not with Sherlock slowly circling Brunton’s desk, gently shifting the piles of papers and humming soft inquisitive noises under his breath.

“Someone has been here before us,” Sherlock said finally. “His files have obviously been rifled through; Brunton is reasonably organized, but these papers are a mess. Spilled ink, drawer left open--someone was looking for something, and they were in a hurry when they did."

“Any idea what?” John asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer, just crouched down under the desk and began running his fingers along the joins in the wood. “Hah!” he exclaimed finally. “I knew it. Bring the light closer.”

John dropped to his knees and crawled under the desk next to Sherlock. He held the glowing tip of his wand to where Sherlock was pointing, trying not to be distracted by the way they were squeezed next to each other in the cramped space, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. Despite the layers of robes and jumpers between them, he could swear he felt the heat of Sherlock’s body where it pressed against his. He forced himself to focus on the matter at hand; this was no time to be getting distracted by the scent of herbs and smoke that seemed to follow Sherlock around. No reason to believe he’d be interested in John anyway. With the light of his wand, John could just see the corner of a piece of parchment, just barely poking out from its hiding place between the underside of the desk and a drawer.

“ _Accio parchment_ ,” Sherlock whispered, and they watched with bated breath as the tiny square of parchment wriggled itself out from between the boards and drifted down to rest on the floor in front of them. Sherlock picked it up with an exclamation of triumph and held it up to the light.

The parchment was crumpled and had clearly been torn in half, perhaps from someone trying to yank it from its hiding place in a rush. John squinted at the writing that covered it--some sort of verse, perhaps, but not in any language or alphabet he recognized.

“Oh, this is _brilliant_ ,” Sherlock breathed. “This will tell us _so much_. Here, what do you make of this?” He thrust the scrap of parchment towards John, the challenge evident on his face.

“Well, they’re, um. They’re runes,” John said, hesitantly. He tried not to feel like an idiot. He’d taken Ancient Runes, too, but he’d never imagined there would be very many real-life applications for it, no matter what the professor had said. “And the paper’s kind of yellowed, so… old? Old runes? I don’t know, Sherlock, there’s not much there to go on.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, John,” Sherlock said, his face lighting with excitement. “There’s _everything_ there to go on. The parchment is old, very old--this is obviously some sort of animal skin, vellum, nothing pulp-based. Probably from a magical creature; that’s how it’s held up so well. I don’t recognize these runes on sight, but they’re clearly insular, post-Roman; you can tell by the style of the down-strokes…” He huffed out a breath in impatience. “If only we had the entire page; there’s not much here to go on. But we’ll make do.” He stopped for a moment, frowning, and then brightened again. “On the bright side, we’ve narrowed down who might have been in here.”

John raised his eyebrows. “We have?”

“Merlin’s beard, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so _boring_ ,” Sherlock said, running a hand through his riotous curls, making them stand even more on end.

John tried to take offense, he honestly did, but Sherlock was lit up like a torch, pacing the small room, nearly vibrating with energy, and John decided seeing that was worth an insult to his intelligence now and then.

“Right, so… what have we narrowed down, then?” John asked, when Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to share any more of his breakthroughs.

“Whoever was in here last was looking for this parchment, clearly, and they found it--there were scuff marks in the dust under the desk here, made by someone on their hands and knees. We were only able to get this last bit of parchment out without tearing it further by using a charm, but whoever was here before us just yanked, leaving our bit still wedged in behind. So: someone who didn’t have wand. Still a magical being, getting into Hogwarts, but definitely not a wizard. My guess is goblin, but I can’t be absolutely sure yet.”

John managed to shut his mouth before Sherlock could catch him gaping this time, but it was a near thing. Everything Sherlock said made sense--once he pointed things out, John could see them, could follow the path of his deductions, but he couldn’t imagine being able to get there himself, and certainly not at Sherlock’s lightning-fast pace.

They stood staring at the scrap of vellum in silence a little longer before John scrubbed his hand through his hair, suddenly exhausted and all-too-aware that he had classes the next day, not to mention a Quidditch practice to run. “You think we can call it a night?” he asked. “Maybe search Brunton’s rooms tomorrow or something?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “We don’t need to search his rooms; we won’t find anything useful in them. I’ll get started on the research; the library should finally be quiet by now.”

John considered pointing out that the library should be _closed_ by now, but he was quickly learning that words like “after hours” and “locked doors” made very little difference to Sherlock. “Right,” John said. “I’ll, uh…”

“I’ll find you tomorrow,” Sherlock replied, distracted. “But this parchment is the key, that much is clear. Decode this, and the rest will fall into place. I’ve got to get to the library.” He turned on his heel towards the door, herding John ahead of him and pulling the door shut behind them. John blinked, momentarily disoriented in the now-dark corridor, and then stumbled forward as Sherlock gave him a gentle shove in the right direction before hurrying off the opposite way.

John made his way toward the Hufflepuff basement as quietly and carefully as he could--listening twice as hard before turning every corner, barely daring to breath. After last night, he wasn’t eager to get caught out of bed again. But he made it back without incident, slipping into his dormitory and under his cozy patch work quilt with a contented sigh. He was asleep in seconds.

//

The next day passed in a blurred haze of exhaustion. Two late nights in a row, topped off by a surprise Potions test and an intense pre-match Quidditch practice? Not, John reflected, the best choices he’d ever made. On the other hand, it was difficult, even with a bit of distance, to resist the pull of Sherlock’s enthusiasm, his intense focus, the light that flashed in his eyes as each new detail fell into place. “Gorgeous” wasn’t a word John usually associated with other blokes, even the ones he fancied, but he was hard-pressed to think of a better one for Sherlock mid-deduction.

Still, John reflected, as he slid through the tunnel entrance to the Hufflepuff common room, bruised and pleasantly aching from practice, he wasn’t entirely disappointed that he hadn’t spotted Sherlock at all that day. A quiet evening and an early bedtime would do him a world of good.

In retrospect, he should have known it was too much to hope for. Even after a mere forty-eight hours’ acquaintance, John was not really surprised to push aside the curtains on his four-poster bed and find Sherlock Holmes sitting cross-legged in the middle of it, books and parchments spread out around him.

“Good, you’re back,” Sherlock said, looking up with a pleased smile. “I’ve got some very promising leads on these runes, but there’s still a few more books to check. You can start with these.” He shoved a few of the books in John’s direction, looking entirely unabashed at having been discovered camping out on John’s bed.

John blinked at him a moment longer before recovering some of his composure. “How’d you get in here, Sherlock?”

“It’s not exactly _difficult_.”

“Of course it is! There hasn’t been a non-Hufflepuff in here in centuries!”

Sherlock snorted. “I think that says rather more about the abysmal intelligence of the average wizard than it does about Hufflepuff House’s _stunning_ security measures, John.”

“You followed someone in, didn’t you?”

“No,” Sherlock said, with great dignity. He paused. “Well. Yes. But only because she happened to be right in front of me. I saw you trying to get in the other night; I could deduce the trick from there if I had to.”

John just rolled his eyes and climbed up to sit at the foot of the bed, pulling the nearest book into his lap and flipping it open. Merlin, even the title page was unintelligible. “Y’know, when I’m not hanging around you, I actually feel halfway intelligent,” he grumbled. “But now I just feel like an idiot.”

“Well, you are,” Sherlock said, unconcerned. “But don’t feel bad, everyone is. And you’re much more tolerable than the general populace.”

“Thanks,” John muttered. “I feel loads better now.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes. “Don’t be tiresome, John. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t helpful. I used to talk to the skull, but I--well, I like having someone to work with.”

Sherlock had been staring hard at the open book in his lap during the entire exchange, clearly pretending to read, but John didn’t miss the way the blush crept across his cheeks and up his ears, or the fact that his eyes weren’t moving across the page at all. He grinned to himself and grabbed another book from the pile. Well. Maybe chances were a little better than he’d assumed. “So,” he said. “What are we looking for?”

//

Several hours later, they seemed no closer to cracking the runes than they had been before. The printing on the pages swam before John's eyes as if enchanted--though, knowing some of the books in the Hogwarts Library, John wouldn’t be at all surprised if they were. He rubbed his palms over his face, stifling another yawn as he did so. Sherlock, sitting across from him, had run his hands through his hair in frustration so often that it stood almost entirely on end, fanning out from his head in a dark cloud.

John closed another book and dropped his head into his hands with a groan. “Sherlock, are you sure these are runes? Real ones? I mean, that sounds stupid, but maybe they’re just meant to look like runes? Because we’re not getting anywhere with this.”

Sherlock gasped and sat bolt upright. “ _John_ ,” he said. “You are _brilliant_.” And then he forward all in a rush, across the pile of books separating them, took John’s face between his hands, and kissed him, close-mouthed and hard. John stiffened in momentary surprise--really, that was _not_ the reaction he’d expected--and Sherlock drew back quickly, reddening furiously and looking like he was about to dive off the bed.

John reached out and grabbed his arm before he could make his escape. “Sherlock--” he began.

“Look, forget it,” Sherlock mumbled, refusing to meet his eyes. “Just--delete it or something, but don’t--”

“No,” John said, pulling Sherlock closer and leaning in himself. He slipped his other hand over Sherlock’s shoulder and then up into his impossible unruly hair, moving in until his lips just barely grazed Sherlock’s. “No,” he repeated, and then pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s, thrilling at the tiny shiver that ran through Sherlock’s body as their lips met. The kiss was soft, even careful, but when they finally broke apart, both boys were breathing hard. John licked his lips, unable to tear his gaze from Sherlock’s wide eyes and slightly parted lips. “I should be brilliant more often,” he said, unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face.

Sherlock stared at him wide-eyed for a moment longer before breaking into a smile of his own, a crooked, nervous, utterly genuine thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made John want to push him back against the bed and _taste_ it.

Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and forced himself to focus on the real task at hand. “So--what was your breakthrough?”

Sherlock’s smile grew impossibly wider and John knew he’d said the right thing. There would be more kisses later--he was sure of that--but for now, watching Sherlock’s face light up as he chased down new deductions would suffice.

“Right,” Sherlock said, pulling the scrap of parchment towards them. “Our mistake was assuming that these are magical runes--that was a stupid assumption; I should have known better. No, I’m almost certain now that these are _Muggle_ runes, probably Anglo-Saxon. They’re similar enough to wizarding runes of the same area and period that they look familiar, but they wouldn’t show up in any of these texts. I should have been in a different section of the library altogether. I’d better get back there; translating this should only be a matter of minutes with the right reference text.” He started to get up and gather the books scattered across John’s bed, then stopped. “I didn’t mean--you can come if you want, of course, but you’ve got a game tomorrow--”

“Go,” John said, gathering the rest of the books and handing them over. “Turns out being brilliant is exhausting, I’m knackered. You can fill me in tomorrow--I’m guessing you’ll know where to find me.”

“Your habits are appallingly easy to deduce. Much like the password to your common room.” With that, Sherlock ducked out from between the curtains of the four-poster and disappeared. John managed to wait until he heard the door click shut behind him before flopping backwards onto the bed, grinning like a fool at the canopy above him. When he finally fell asleep--much later than he should have, for as tired as he was--it was with the feel of Sherlock’s lips pressed against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I am sorry this took so long.
> 
> Many thanks to the Antidiogenes Club for the chats and the encouragement, and to Alter for the beta.


End file.
